The Memories of the West
by tiesthatbind1899
Summary: A story about the road west. Or just the memories of it and those who walked it. Or-a story in which Arthur does not get TB and die.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Hi! This is a story I originally posted on Ao3, but I thought I'd post it here, too. :) **

**Basically, I wanted to write about how Arthur might achieve redemption had he not gotten sick. I believe he still had it in him to search for peace, even without the TB looming over him. So nothing really before Chapter 5 in the game has changed for the purposes of this story. Other characters will be added as we go.**

**Some warnings: violence, sexual content, a sort of forced/rushed marriage, harassment, and a big age gap between love interests (all parties are legal age, however).**

**PM me if you have any concerns. :)**

* * *

**-Chapter One-**

**1904**

They said you could find anything you wanted on the road west, even God Hisself, and if you couldn't, then you just hadn't gone far enough.

She had walked a lot of country by that summer, though, and she hadn't found God yet-just the devil and everything else besides.

They'd gone through mountains and sweetgrass, through flatlands and fields, and now they were in the desert, wandering like Moses and his people.

That's where her father died and her brother, too, both taken by fever.

They'd started the journey with seven.

Now, there were only five. A mother and four children to tend, all on her own.

When the man on the horse rode up, they all stared. Not at him but the animal. What a beauty it was. Constance did not know horses very well but she knew enough to see this one was a prize.

"You folks okay?" the man asked.

Perhaps it was the horse. Perhaps it was the question, the inflection of kindness.

But her mother went to him. She reached up, grabbed his hand and said, "No."

He dismounted and walked them, and his horse, off the road and into the brush. Towards a cave in the side of a dusty brown mountain. It was their desperation that allowed them to follow him so easily. Constance's younger sisters and brother trailed behind her like featherless ducklings, starved and sunburned.

The man said, "Got a camp here. It's shady. Got some food, too, you can have."

"May God bless you for your kindness," said her mother.

The man chuckled at this. Constance had not yet seen his face, as it was covered by the brim of a dark hat. Covered by shadow. But she could see he was big. Tall and broad shouldered. She wanted to stand in the cool line of shade he cast. "I don't think God takes too kindly to men like me, ma'am."

"Oh, that isn't true. He rewards those who are generous."

"Some generosity don't cancel out a lifetime of sin. Least, that's the way I reckon it works."

Constance paused now, her youngest brother, Gideon, running into her rear.

They were nearly at the cave. She could see its black and yawning hole in the side of the cliff. And there was that big man, whose face she couldn't see. Who had no favor with God.

"Mother?" she asked.

Her mother paused, turned to look at her.

"What is it, Constance?"

She hesitated. The man's face was still shadowed beneath his hat, but he was looking at her. She felt his gaze like sand brushing against her in a breeze. "I don't believe we should stay very long. Uncle Norman is expecting us soon."

Her mother frowned, and Constance hoped that she would not give the lie away. Her mother's mind was weighed heavy with pain and sun-sickness, and Constance did not have high hopes.

But then, like a miracle, her mother nodded. "Yes, we will only stay a moment."

They went to the cave.

At the mouth, there were logs for a fire. A sleeping pack lay next to it. A lantern, cans of food, a skinned rabbit.

All of their stomachs seemed to roar in unison.

"Help yourself to whatever you see," said the man.

Her siblings poured from around her like water, descending upon the treasures, but her mother halted them with a sharp bark.

"Don't be unruly," she said. She grabbed a can of beans, scooped a spoonful for each of them. "Try this first. You'll be sick if you eat a lot at once."

They obeyed, begrudgingly.

Constance's eyes drifted towards the man. He took his hat off to wipe sweat with the back of his arm. There was enough light coming in to see his hair was light brown, fine and a bit long. Perhaps once it was very fair but time had dulled it to the color of aged wheat.

He looked up and his eyes were so blue that it shocked her into some strange new feeling and she quickly averted her gaze.

"Thank you, again," her mother said. She was sitting near the children, feeding them careful bites.

"Ain't nothin', ma'am." The sound of his voice seemed to rumble in the cave. Constance wondered how deep it went.

"It is. It is something. You're the first man who's shown us any kindness in the past few weeks." Her mother pushed a few strands of hair out of her face only to be interrupted by Gideon tugging on her arm for more food. "My name is Lorena. This is my boy, Gideon. Grace and Faith are my younger girls here. My eldest is Constance."

Constance felt the man looking at her again. She felt the creep of blood rushing up her neck, the side of her face, where his eyes had settled.

"It's a pleasure," said the man.

"Will you tell us your name?" her mother asked.

His hesitation worried Constance but finally, he said, "Arthur. Arthur Callahan."

"Well, you are a good man, Mr. Callahan."

Again, he laughed, but it had no joy. "I ain't sure 'bout that."

Gideon suddenly gagged, a horrid, retching sound, and a spill of beans and water came running from his mouth, into his lap.

This was almost more than Mother could bear. Constance saw the strain, the pain of the last few weeks, months. She saw it all in her mother's watery eyes, and Constance quickly stepped forward before her mother's mind could snap, maybe get lost in the break.

"I'll clean him," said Constance.

"There's a river nearby. I can take you," Mr. Callahan said.

"That's quite all right. You've troubled yourself enough. Just point me in the right direction." Constance grabbed beneath Gideon's arms, lifted him. His weight was slight and boneless.

"It's 'bout a half mile out. West from here."

Everything in her life seemed to be west from where she'd been standing.

* * *

Constance didn't like leaving her mother and the girls, but she knew Mother had Father's gun and that did give her some comfort.

"I'm hot," said Gideon.

"I know. So am I."

"Are we almost there?"

"I think so." Constance shifted him on her hip. She was covered in his filth now, too, but it hardly seemed to matter. She imagined this river. She let herself think the water would be cool, like the mountain springs back home. She let herself imagine she'd dive in and sink to the bottom and settle there and be washed smooth and shiny like a stone with the rush of the current.

In reality, the river was still. A rippleless blue snake curling through dry land, carving a groove for itself. The water was not cool at all, but hot. Just as everything else in this desert was.

Gideon seemed revived by it. He splashed and washed himself clean, until he almost resembled a boy again.

Constance went about her own washing with care and scaredness. She was very gentle with her dress, which was so threadbare it could fall apart at the seams from the slightest scrub.

When they were done, they walked back and let the air dry them. They were not even damp by the time they reached the cave.

Inside, the girls were sleeping and Mother was finally eating. Small careful bites of meat.

Constance looked for the man, but he was not there.

"Where is he?" she asked.

Her mother's eyes were drooping, her chewing slow. "He said he had to go catch another rabbit. For our dinner."

"We're staying for dinner?"

Gideon pulled out of Constance's hand, ran to their mother. He launched himself in her lap, snuggled down despite the heat.

"I thought we might," her mother said.

"We don't know this man."

"He's been very kind."

"And don't you wonder why that is?"

Her mother shifted Gideon in her lap, blinking fast. "What choice do we have."

Constance glanced over at the girls. They were still, sleeping soundly, their dark hair tangled together. The shady rock must have felt cool against their skin.

Constance said, "I suppose none."

* * *

The man did not come back with a rabbit but a pronghorn. It was a massive beast, slung over his shoulder and dripping blood from an empty eye-socket. When Arthur dropped it to the ground, Gideon woke, fluttering with excitement. He eventually couldn't contain himself and shook his younger sisters awake, too, and the three of them sat, dark-headed doorsteps, watching as Mr. Callahan unsheathed a hunting knife.

"We can help you skin it, if you like," Mother said.

"No need, ma'am. I can manage." And he made short work of it, slicing away at the pronghorn hide. Aggressive, efficient.

Constance knew Gideon would be impressed, and he was, inching closer and closer, watching on in amazement.

"How'd you catch one of those? They're fast."

Mr. Callahan paused in his cutting for a moment, wiped sweat from his brow and left just a little streak of blood behind. "If you stay downwind of 'em you can usually get close enough to get a shot in. Gotta get 'em in the eye or the heart or somethin' real important, though. Otherwise, they'll spook and you gotta chase 'em down."

"Did you kill this one with one shot?"

Mr. Callahan just nodded as he went back to work.

"With a gun?"

"A bow, actually."

"Wow." The word was exhaled quietly beneath Gideon's breath. "My father had a gun. Now my mother has it. But he didn't have a bow. And I never saw him use the gun much, unless it was to shoot squirrels. But he was not a very good shot at all."

"What happened to him-your pa?"

"He died," said Gideon.

"On the trail," Mother added, her voice very quiet.

Constance looked to Faith and Grace, but they were sitting further out now, away from the gore of the pronghorn, talking amongst themselves. In their own world, connected and enclosed. They had a kind of magic, the twins, a real magic-speaking to each other with only their eyes and hands, reaching out to feel the other's pain when separated.

It was not the same magic Constance had. The same magic her father said she had.

She envious of the twins and their silent, understanding ways.

"I'm sorry to hear that," said Mr. Callahan. Constance looked back to him, found his eyes dipping away from hers. "If you don't mind me askin', why you folks out on the trails? I mean, where are you headed?"

"My husband was a minister," said Mother. "He was called to preach in a settlement in Arizona. We couldn't afford train passage for us and all our children, so we decided to go by wagon. A bit old fashioned, now, I suppose. But… it seemed an adventure, at the time."

Outside, the sky was turning gold and pink. The heat was edging away, as was the sun, and the night sounds began.

Inside the cave, there was only the saw of Mr. Callahan's knife and the crackle of fire. The rustling sound of many breaths being taken at different times.

"That's bad business," said Mr. Callahan. "I'm real sorry."

"It isn't your fault. You've been a true blessing. We got… lost a few days after my husband passed. Someone stole our wagon, our things. We are… well, we are in a sorry state. But we would be much worse off, had it not been for you."

Mr. Callahan brushed past the compliments as if they were cobwebs. He settled back on his heels, in a crouch by the half-chopped pronghorn. "You got family near, right? That uncle? Where's he at? I can point you in the right direction."

Mother's eyes flickered over to Constance then back to Mr. Callahan. "I'm… well, that won't be necessary. If you can just point us to the direction of the closest town… perhaps there we can drum up the money needed for train passage to my uncle."

"He can't send for you?"

"I'm afraid not."

"Well." Mr. Callahan scratched at his jaw, forgetting the state of his hands. He left a smear of blood in the beginnings of his beard. "Tumbleweed's the closest town to here but I wouldn't recommend it. Ain't nothin' hardly there since the railroad passed 'em by. Armadillo is the closest town after that. But it ain't much, neither. Been hit by lots of sickness. Just got over a bout of scarlet fever that nearly killed everyone there."

"That's horrible." Mother's hand went to the cross around her neck, a reflex she wasn't aware of. "Is there… well, is there anyone left?"

"Oh, yeah. Bunch of drunkards and fools. Maybe a few good people. I ain't sure there's a lot of work 'round there, though. Least… least not the type a good woman like you'd want, if you get my meanin'."

Mother turned pink, as if she'd been held too close to the fire. "Oh. I see."

"Could be somethin' though. At least they got the rail station. I'd be happy to take you folks to it. It's a few days out."

"We don't want to impose any more than-"

"I was plannin' on headin' into Armadillo soon, anyway."

"Is that where you reside?"

Mr. Callahan went back to his cutting. "Don't really reside anywhere, ma'am."

* * *

With their bellies full for the first time in weeks, they fell asleep, one-by-one, all huddled around the fire to fight off the desert chill.

In her dreams, she saw strange things. Things she would not be able to recall when she woke but would haunt her into the day. Things that would keep an uneasy feeling hovering in the back of her mind.

She did wake once, in the night, quite suddenly.

Her eyes opened to the sight of him.

He was sitting on the other side of the fire, awake. Writing in a book. His hat was off, and the flames made his face golden and sharp in places, soft in others.

He glanced up when he felt her stare.

Was she still dreaming? Perhaps that is why she didn't look away, shy and caught. She shifted her head on her arm as Gideon snuggled closer to her in his sleep, and all the while, she kept looking at Mr. Callahan.

And he kept looking back.

When she fell back to sleep, she dreamed of pronghorn and open plains. This she remembered.

* * *

**A/N: Constructive criticism would be super appreciated :)**


	2. Chapter 2

**-Chapter Two-**

The next morning came and found them walking again. But this time, they walked with a horse and a man with guns and with no father. This time, they walked east.

Mr. Callahan had woke before any of them and packed the camp. The children had stirred excitedly, revived by food and sleep and a firm direction in which to travel.

"You kids know how to ride a horse?" Mr. Callahan had asked them.

Gideon answered no for them all as the girls had grown shy and hid and giggled behind their hands.

"All right if I teach 'em?" This Mr. Callahan had asked of Constance's mother.

She'd nodded quickly. "Of course."

So Mr. Callahan had picked them up, one by one, and settled them in the saddle. They were all three small enough to fit, and they formed a little chain-Gideon holding on to the horn of the saddle, Grace holding on to Gideon, Faith holding on to Grace.

Mr. Callahan had told them where to put their feet, what to do, and they took his instruction dutifully. Then he'd grabbed the reins and led the horse, and the rest of them, away from the cave.

The day was hot and wavering, the horizon nothing but hazy lines. The sun reflected off the sand, disorienting, but Mr. Callahan seemed to know his way.

Constance walked behind them all and worried over the children. They were very high up on that horse. She worried, still, over Mr. Callahan, too. He looked big beside her mother, who walked near him. He had all those guns-two on his hips and a rifle across his back.

Her mother must have noticed, too. She asked him, as they all moved slow through the desert, "What is it you do, Mr. Callahan? Besides rescue poor starving families from the desert."

Mr. Callahan had his hat on again, and Constance noticed he often hid behind it. He dipped his head, then, as her mother's question floated over to him. "Bounty huntin', mostly, ma'am."

"I imagine that's dangerous work."

"Ah, it ain't so bad."

"Have you caught anyone real famous?" asked Gideon, leaning dangerously in the saddle.

Mr. Callahan noticed the boy tipping and quickly reached up to push him back in his proper spot. "Not really. Petty thieves, mostly."

"You ever shot anyone?"

"Gideon Joseph." Mother would have smacked him, had she been able to reach him on the horse.

Mr. Callahan only chuckled, rubbed the back of his neck. "It's all right," he said but he did not answer Gideon's question.

* * *

They walked until the children grew tired and sore and more sunburned still.

Mr. Callahan helped them down and said, "We should prolly go into Tumbleweed. Get your kids some hats for the rest of the journey. Get some supplies, too."

"How far is it?" Mother asked.

"It's kind of on the way," said Mr. Callahan. He scratched at his jaw, squinted up at the sky. "I reckon we're only a day's ride from it."

Mother glanced over at the children. They sat beneath the sparse shade of a mesquite tree, looking red and miserable.

"All right," said Mother. "If you think that's best." She went to the kids, fussed over them.

Constance felt Mr. Callahan's eyes resting on her. When she looked at him, he offered her his canteen.

"I'm all right, thank you," she said.

"You ain't had nothin' to drink in a while. Take it. You'll get sick otherwise."

"I don't think-"

"Don't be stubborn, girl. Just take it." He shoved the canteen at her.

She took it and he stared her down, beneath the brim of his hat, until she acquiesced. Hot water had never tasted so sweet. The moment it hit her tongue, she was hungry for it. She wanted to overturn the canteen, let the water soak her hair and run down her spine.

"There you go," he said, nodding. Then he resettled his hat and squinted at her family, still huddled beneath the mesquite tree. "You folks have had a hard go of it."

"We aren't unique in that."

"Guess not."

She handed him back the canteen, and he looked at her, motioned towards her forehead.

"Those fellers who robbed you do that?" he asked.

Her hand went up, touched at the scabby strip along her hairline, the place he was eyeing. It wasn't sore anymore. When it'd happened, it had bled and bled, red running into her eyes. The children had been frightened. She had been, too.

"No," she said. "I just fell. I'm a bit clumsy sometimes."

Mr. Callahan looked at her, nodding like he didn't believe a word of it. He took a swig from the canteen, wiped his mouth with the back of his arm. "That so?"

"That's so," she said.

He laughed again and looked away. "Ain't gotta get so defensive, girl. Just makin' conversation."

She didn't believe him. His eyes were sharp beneath that hat.

"What'd those fellers look like-who robbed you?" he asked, grabbing his belt.

Constance glanced back to her family. She thought of the girls, who as babies cried all the time. Who said monsters were beneath their beds. Who said ghost-ladies stood in the corners of their room and came out of paintings to whisper at them. The twins were terrified, then, of everything.

Now, they'd seen real monsters. Real cruelty and real sadness.

"They were dirty," said Constance, looking back to Mr. Callahan. "A mix of men. One of them had a scar along his cheek, like someone had… had cut his mouth open, nearly to his ear. His teeth were rotted."

Mr. Callahan scratched at the stubble on his jaw. "Sounds like Bolivar Romero. He runs with the Del Lobos."

"Does he have a bounty?"

"Fairly large one." Mr. Callahan was looking distant, still scratching idly at his jaw. "How far away did all this happen? In which direction?"

"I'm not certain. I know we were near some abandoned looking farm."

"Could be Solomon's Folly." Mr. Callahan seemed to ruminate on this moment. He fumbled around in his satchel, pulled out that little brown book she'd seen him writing in before. He scribbled something hastily, put it back, found himself a pack of cigarettes.

He offered her one.

"I don't smoke."

"Oh, no, course not." He smiled a little, struck a match on the bottom of his boot.

"Are you going to go after those men?" She had to shield her eyes from the sun, now, as it crawled directly overhead.

"Maybe. I ain't decided yet." He lit his cigarette, shook out the match. Looked at her. "You want me to?"

This startled her. "Me?"

He nodded, still looking at her. He smoked, blowing clouds over her shoulder.

"There were a lot of men," she said. "Six or seven. I don't think it would be wise for you to go after them, all on your own."

With the cigarette between his lips, his words came out a bit muffled. "I been against worse odds."

She thought this was most likely true. She'd noticed the patch of scarring on his chin, where his beard didn't quite grow in. She'd seen the scratches against his nose. The rest of him was covered up, hidden from the sun, but she got the sense there were more scars, all over. Like seeing the tip of an iceberg and knowing there was more beneath.

"Why are you helping us?" she asked because she had wanted to for so long and only just now got up the courage.

She thought he'd give a vaguely altruistic answer-it seemed the right thing to do or something similar.

But instead, he shrugged his big shoulders. "I ain't sure," is what he said.

* * *

They lingered until Mr. Callahan said it was best just to make camp there for the night.

"The rattlesnakes will be comin' out," he said, which Constance thought might be more to scare the girls and excite Gideon than anything.

They were close enough to the river to hear its roar, and the sound tempted Mother and the girls for a wash. Gideon stayed near the fire and fell asleep, his legs jerking, no doubt dreaming of horses and rattlers.

Mr. Callahan was quiet, scratching his pencil in that book again. He didn't sit too near the fire. He kept his back against a rock and looked up occasionally, scanned the evening land around them, then looked back at his book.

She felt comforted by this, his watchfulness. She told herself to settle and relax, but she couldn't quite manage it seemed. Sometimes, when he looked up, he looked at her, too, and this made her feel less comforted. More restless.

So she got up and wandered outside the circle of firelight.

He noticed, of course. "Don't stray too far."

"Or the rattlesnakes will get me?" she asked.

He was looking down at his book, his hat still in place, but she still could see the slow curve of his smile.

She listened to him, though. She only went far enough to feel lonely.

The land was purple with twilight. The moon had appeared, hazy and full, and tonight, when the sky finally cooled to black, it would shine bright and look yellow-gold.

At night and at dawn was when she felt farthest from home. The air here was so clear when the dust settled. The sky was close, the stars so bright they could sting your eyes. Sunsets and sunrises in Pennsylvania were misty, foggy with moisture and greenery. They were warm and hidden by trees, big hills.

Here, it was cold.

It felt unforgiving-this land. Yet there were things that lived here-cacti, rabbits, birds, mesquite. Even flowers.

She crouched by some low-growing plant and watched its blooms unfold in the night. The petals were white, delicate and paper-thin, but she knew it was hardy. It had to be. This was not a place that held delicacy dear.

"That's dune evenin' primrose."

She jumped and twisted to catch Mr. Callahan's smile.

"Didn't mean to scare you," he said but that smile still lingered a little.

She turned back to the flower, her heart thudding. "I'm sure."

He crouched beside her, watching the flower, too. "It blooms all night, closes back up in the light of dawn. Some folks call it the devil's lantern."

"Seems a strange name for something so pretty."

"Guess some think it's unnatural-bloomin' at night like it does."

"I think it's interesting."

Mr. Callahan was watching her, now. She felt his gaze. He just hummed.

"Are you interested in botany?" she asked.

"In what?"

She felt herself smile, just a little. "Botany. The study of plants."

He shrugged. "I reckon as much as the next feller. I like knowin' what'll kill you and what won't."

"Will this? Kill you, I mean."

"Nah. It's harmless." He rested his elbows on his knees, kept on looking at her. "Your momma and the girls came back from the water. They're wonderin' where you are."

She nodded and got to her feet. He stood with her, his hands on his belt again. There was a pause between them she didn't fully understand. An urge within her to say more, to stretch the moment. But she couldn't find the words. She just looked at him, and he looked back, until he kind of exhaled a laugh and looked away. It was a little shy.

"Let's get back," he said.

"All right."


	3. Chapter 3

**-Chapter Three-**

That night, she dreamt of cactus spines and falling, and the next morning, they were traveling once more.

It did not take them long to come upon Tumbleweed. They walked up a hill that made Constance sweat and pant, and then, she saw a mansion. A mansion and the town it overlooked.

"Who lives in that big house?" asked Gideon, leaning forward on the horse and tipping once more.

Mr. Callahan righted him like a reflex. "I ain't sure. Heard it's haunted, though."

"Really?" asked Grace, her voice small.

"Ah, it's prolly just a tall tale," said Mr. Callahan. His voice was very comforting, when he wanted it to be. "Don't you worry none."

The town was dusty, a crisscross of rickety buildings. Only a few people milled around in the heat, moving slow, sending little looks towards Constance and Mr. Callahan and the rest.

"They ain't all too friendly 'round here," said Mr. Callahan. "But the lady who runs the general store is nice enough."

"A woman runs it?" Constance asked. It was the first time she'd spoken all day, and her throat was just a little scratchy.

Mr. Callahan led the horse to a hitching post, tied it up. He helped the children down. "Yeah. Her husband died a few years back so she took over. Tough as nails, she is."

The girls dusted their skirts and glowed at having been picked up. They huddled around Mother, and Gideon darted into the store, leaving the rest to follow.

The place was cloudy with dust and heat, the floorboards creaking. There was not much on the shelves-beat up cans of food, old candy, busted sacks of flour-but despite the gloom, the woman behind the counter was smiling, kind lines cracking around her eyes.

"Mr. Callahan!" she said.

"Mrs. Chambers," he said.

"Been a while since I see you. The sheriff'll be pleased. Got some more bounties for you to pick up."

"I ain't really here on business, ma'am. But I'll give it a look."

"I didn't know you had a family," said Mrs. Chambers, looking over the children. They were nearly vibrating with excitement, being in a store for the first time in weeks. Constance knew the candy, as old as it seemed, must look mighty good to them.

"Oh, they ain't mine. Just some folks I met on the road." Mr. Callahan was looking over the shelves carefully.

"Oh. Well. It's nice to meet you all," said Mrs. Chambers.

"And you," said Mother. "We're in the market for some hats."

Mrs. Chambers showed them her collection. None of them fit the kids, but they would work well enough and they at least had fun, trying them all on.

"You ain't gettin' one?" asked Mr. Callahan when he noticed Constance, hatless and standing aside, in the corner.

"I don't burn."

He rolled his eyes. "Hats do more than keepin' you from burnin'. They keep the sun outta your eyes, too. I seen you squintin' against it." He looked over all the dusty hats, grabbed the biggest, ugliest one there was and settled it atop her head. Even with her hair piled on her crown, the hat dropped over into her line of view.

He pushed it up, dipped to look beneath the brim, saw her tiny little smile. "There. You look real fine."

"Well, it would certainly keep the sun from my eyes."

Mr. Callahan chuckled and pulled it off her, tossed it. He grabbed something a bit smaller-a lady's bonnet. He carefully put it on her head and looked her over. "That's better. Look and see."

She glanced to a window, saw Mr. Callahan's reflection looking at hers. She barely noticed the bonnet but supposed it was fine.

"Looks real proper," he said.

She hummed and tied the ribbon at her chin. "You have an eye for fashion, sir."

He kind of laughed, frowned at the same time. "Shut up."

It would have been rude, coming from someone else. But it just made her smile a little more, blush.

"Look at our hats," said Grace, appearing at Mr. Callahan's leg with Faith in tow.

"Very lovely," he said, which made them giggle and scatter like mice. He smiled after them, caught Constance staring. "They're real fine kids."

"That's only because they're sweet on you. Otherwise, they're quite incorrigible."

Mr. Callahan huffed and muttered something self-deprecating beneath his breath, dipping his head to hide beneath his hat once more.

Mother was at the counter, looking strained as she picked through her pockets. Constance drifted over and listened as she asked Mrs. Chambers if she could pay in trinkets.

Mrs. Chambers had her brows pinched together. But then she looked to the children, all wearing hats that were much too big for their heads. They were making dizzying circles in the middle of the store, to see who would fall over first. Then Mrs. Chambers sighed and took the cuff links Mother had offered. "Sure, ma'am."

"Thank you," said Mother.

Mr. Callahan had missed it all. He'd had to pick Gideon off the floor.

Constance moved closer to her mother and whispered, "Do we have anything left at all?"

"Your father's watch," said Mother. "Your grandmother's necklace. And my wedding ring. That's it."

The sun felt especially hot and bright when they walked back outside, even with Constance's new bonnet.

"There's the boarding house there. You'll have to go into the gunshop to rent a room, though-that's where the owner operates from," said Mr. Callahan.

"Oh, we're staying the night?" asked Mother.

Mr. Callahan shrugged. "Thought you folks might like a proper rest. The trek to Armadillo is gonna take a few more days."

"It isn't necessary," said Mother. "Really. We're fit to keep going."

Mr. Callahan looked at her for a moment, his hands on his hips. Then he nodded, scratched his jaw. "Well, if I'm bein' real honest, I'd like to stay the night. I got some credit at the gunshop anyways-you can use it to rent a room."

"Oh, we couldn't."

"Sure, you can. It's only right over there-just a short walk."

"No, I meant we couldn't take any more charity from you, Mr. Callahan."

He sighed, grabbed his belt. "I know what you meant. And it ain't charity, not really. I want to stay the night. They always got a good game of poker goin' at the saloon, and I'm desperate to play."

Constance looked to her mother and waited. So did the children.

The sun was shifting in the sky, catching grit and dirt like gold dust in the light. A big cloud blew past, into Constance's eyes.

"All right," said Mother.

The children looked excited once more in their big, stupid hats.

"If you're sure," she added.

"Sure I'm sure." Mr. Callahan offered a quick smile. "I'll go square things with the owner and be back shortly."

Constance watched him walk off, into the store. Then she glanced back at her mother. "Why do you think he's being so helpful?"

"Perhaps he's a gift from God."

Constance went silent at this. She knew nothing to say that would not be disrespectful and faithless. Her mother walked in a different light than she. Or, perhaps, her mother just walked where the light was brightest. And Constance could not keep up and sometimes got left in the beginnings of shadow.

* * *

The room Mr. Callahan's favor bought them was on the second floor, up a curl of outdoor steps. It had faded wallpaper, sand stuck between the floorboards, and a crooked painting on the wall. There was one very small bed.

"I guess the children can sleep there," said Mother.

"No. You can. The children and I can sleep on the floor. You need some rest."

"All of you need rest, darling-"

"Take the bed, Mother." Constance walked over to one of the windows. Outside, on a brown jut of rock, was a windmill. It spun lazily in a hot breeze and explained the constant and rhythmic creaking she'd been hearing.

They didn't eat because they couldn't afford to. The children fell asleep with their stomachs growling loud, and Constance laid beside them, hot in that airless room.

She dreamed only a little and woke before the dawn. Her mother looked almost peaceful in the bed, and Constance was thankful for that, at least. The children had finally cooled and calmed in the night, and they huddled together, three little lumps beneath the blanket.

Constance stood up and dressed quietly.

Outside, the windmill still creaked. On the horizon, she could see just a little light. She left the room, to see it better, to watch the sun rise. Her father used to say that's when he felt God most, at the beginning of a new day, when most of the world was still asleep. Constance wanted to feel God now.

She waited, on the steps leading up to their room, and watched the sun push its way above the mountains. The sky turned gold and pink, and still, her peace did not come, nor did God but only Mr. Callahan.

The stables were nearby, and this is where she assumed he was heading until he spotted her.

"You're up early," he said. His voice was rough, slurring in places, and he had to pause a moment, to rest against the side of the boarding house.

"So are you." She looked at him, peeped beneath the brim of his hat. "Or perhaps you haven't been to bed at all."

He shrugged. "Sometimes when the winnin' is good, it's hard to step away from the poker table."

"Sometimes it's hard to step away from the bottle, too."

A brief smile touched his lips. "And what'd you know 'bout that, girl?"

She flushed a little, felt a flare of irritation. "Are you fit to travel today? You seem to be in quite a state."

He looked at her directly, no longer hiding behind his hat. His eyes were still a shock, the color of water in the desert. They were bloodshot, tired and drunk, but hard, too. She began to regret asking him such a question.

"I'm fine," he said and she did not argue it.

But two hours later, as they walked and the sun crept high and the children fidgeted in the horse's saddle, Mr. Callahan was sick in some brush.

The children were made nervous by it. Father and David had been unable to keep food and drink, near the end. They spit up like infants and moaned like madmen. They'd distant-eyed and sweaty strangers then.

When Gideon asked Constance if Mr. Callahan would be okay, she scoffed. "He's only whiskey-sick."

Mother, of course, tried to help. She went to Mr. Callahan and touched his shoulder. He jerked away, surprised. He wiped at his mouth and spit, and Mother asked if they should rest a moment.

"I'm fine," he said. "Just… just gimme a minute."

A minute passed. Then two.

Constance tried to fan herself but it only served in making her hotter. The sun was directly overhead, and even with their new hats, it felt as though they were baking, hardening to dust.

The horse spooked suddenly. It reared, and the motion upset the delicate balance the children had.

It was Faith who fell, and Constance barely caught her. The weight tipped them, and they toppled backwards, Constance taking the brunt of the fall on her back. It knocked the wind out of her, and the sun went directly in her eyes, white-hot and disorienting.

Faith screamed, scrambling against Constance, but before she could react, there was a gunshot.

It was so loud that Constance lost hearing for a moment. She laid in the dirt, blind and deaf, until her senses returned.

Everything had happened very quickly, in the space of a few heartbeats.

Constance blinked, sitting up, finding her eyes and ears once more. A shadow passed over her, a breath of shade.

It was Mr. Callahan crouching before her, the sun behind him. "You all right?"

She looked down at herself. Then she looked to her left, saw a dead snake. Its blood was bright against the sand, and she did not know why she reached for it, as if to touch it. But Mr. Callahan quickly caught her wrist. He was wearing gloves, and it was the first time he'd touched her.

"I wouldn't," he said, quiet. "Rattlesnakes can bite even after they're dead."

She blinked again, her ears still ringing a little. She looked for Faith next and found her near their mother, clinging to her skirts but unharmed.

"Thank you," said Constance.

"Sure." Mr. Callahan let go of her wrist but grabbed her hand, helped her to her feet.

Gideon was less shaken by the whole ordeal, more impressed with Mr. Callahan by the minute. Faith refused to get back on the horse, and so Grace got down, too, to walk with her sister.

They only made it a bit further before sunset, and so they camped in a canyon, near a rail line.

They all stayed very close to the fire, except for Mr. Callahan who rested against a rock and fell asleep sitting up, his hat low over his face. The children went next, then Mother, and Constance was last, staring up at the star-scattered sky, listening to the breaths around her, the howl of coyotes in the distance.

She dreamed of rattlesnakes.

* * *

**I forgot to mention that I've changed a few things, map-wise, to fit within the story. Also, I view this Arthur as falling on the neutral honor scale but going up to high honor as we go along. :)**

**Any constructive crit would be appreciated! :) xx**


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